


By Any Other Name

by megzseattle



Series: The Serpent and The Seagull [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, ineffable husbands, valentines day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megzseattle/pseuds/megzseattle
Summary: Image bygoodomensficrecommendationson tumblrThere are least a million types of love. Aziraphale attempts to quantify the first eight of them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Serpent and The Seagull [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1412167
Comments: 158
Kudos: 158





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This one is in honor of Valentine's Day. Enjoy!

“The Greeks, you know, they had it right,” Crowley said one night while they were enthusiastically making their way through a plate of take away souvlaki and washing it down with large quantities of retsina. At least three empty bottles rolled at their feet. It was an acquired taste, the piney, minty retsina, but once one had acquired it, it packed quite a punch. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, patting the corners of his mouth tidily with a napkin. “How so?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley said, leaning back. “Philosophy. Art.” He took another sip. “They invented columns! Where would we be without columns to hold up roofs? Bunch of roofs falling down on our heads, thass where we’d be.” 

Aziraphale grinned. “You’re a bit drunk, my dear.”

“Like you aren’t?” Crowley fixed him with a look. “And – and they were the absolute pinnacle of sculpture, you know. All those – all those naked wrestlers and nymphs and things. Hard to beat that.”

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale noted, refilling his husband’s drink. “Do go on.”

“And –” Crowley screwed up his face in concentration. “And the Olympics! Wouldn’t be bloody carrying a torch all over creation every four years if it weren’t for the Greeks! Wouldn’t be, um, resting on our laurels now, would we?” He let out an undignified burp. “Anywayssss, the Greeks were pretty great. I enjoyed ancient Greece. Togas. Very freeing.”

Aziraphale plucked the glass from his hand and set it down on the coffee table, and pulled Crowley into snuggle against him. “You’re not wrong, my dear. We both spent many years there, and I loved it too. Especially the philosophers. Such an exciting time to be alive. I still think frequently about their views on love,” he said. “Such an interesting classification system they developed, don’t you think?”

Crowley nuzzled against him with his eyes shut. “Oh yessss – what was it? Agape, eros – big fan of eros, me… what were there others? I can’t remember“

The angel grinned and leaned down to kiss the demon on top of his head. “Of course you are, love,” he said. “But really, there were eight.” 

Stroking his fingers through Crowley’s red locks, he let his mind drift back over their interactions and began sorting them into categories. He was sure they’d covered most of them over the years.


	2. Xenia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale cares for a bedraggled Crowley in the middle of the night.

_Xenia – the ancient Greek concept of hospitality, showing generosity and courtesy to those far from home, bestowing guest-friendship through the giving of material gifts and nonmaterial gifts, such as protection, shelter, and favors._

**St. Albans, Hertfordshire, 1331 ******

It was a miserable, wet, muddy night. Aziraphale wrapped his brown, roughspun cloak around him more tightly and leaned into the rain as he made his way out to the monastery gardens to check the lashings on the new apple saplings they’d recently planted. It wouldn’t do to have one of the tender trunks snap in the wind. He pulled his hood further down over his head and lifted the lantern he was carrying as he carefully made his way around the fish pond and beehives.

He squelched his right sandal directly into a large pile of muck, clucked his tongue in disgust, and leaned against a wall to try to scrape some of it off on a rock.

It was then that he heard it –a crash, followed by a faint hissing sound, followed by a few creative swear words. He knew that voice. Knew it well.

“Crowley?” the angel called, forgetting about his shoe and raising the lantern high. “Is that you?”

Another muffled thump led him deeper into the monastic gardens, bypassing the forgotten apple saplings entirely, until he came to a huddled lump just inside the back gate.

“Angel!” the demon said, all false bravado. “Imagine meeting you here.”

Aziraphale held the lantern steady and examined the demon more closely. He had clearly just climbed over the locked gate and dropped in a heap on the flagstones inside. He was completely sodden with rain and mud, had a long streak of what looked like dried blood across one side of his face, and his golden eyes were blinking fiercely in the lamplight.

“I do not believe for one moment that you just happened to throw yourself over a random gate into a garden that just happens to be mine,” he admonished gently. He crouched down and held out a hand to the demon. “Are you injured? You look a mess. Let me take you back to my room and get you warmed up.”

“C-c-can’t,” the demon said, his teeth chattering in spite of himself. “Monastery cells are consecrated ground.”

“Oh, no, not to worry,” the angel said. “I’m just a lay brother here. I live in a small hut on the grounds, nothing there that will burn you. Just stay out of the main buildings and all will be well.”

He held out his hand again, and with a sigh the demon took it and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He appeared to be favoring his left leg, the angel noted. Aziraphale gingerly offered an arm to the demon, who rolled his eyes but took it, and reluctantly allowed the angel to support him on the trek back through the gardens towards home.

\--

The hut was a small, rough timber and plaster building with a steeply sloped roof and only one window. One wall was entirely taken over by a large fireplace with a cookpot hanging in the center, with a rough mat for a bed along one wall and a table with two rough-hewn chairs on the other. Nearly all of the remaining space was taken up by rolls and rolls of parchment, books, and ink pots. It was messy and homey, and Aziraphale felt better the second they rolled through the front door.

“Now, he said, divesting Crowley of his soaking wet cloak, “let’s get you warm and dry, for a start.”

The demon mutely allowed the angel to fuss over him, pulling a stool over close to the fire and all but pushing him onto it. He pulled off the demon’s soaking boots and put those close to the fire to dry, then helped him peel off his sodden linen shirt. He brooked no argument when he offered the demon his only spare tunic, leaving Crowley no choice but to pull it on while the angel busied himself retrieving a blanket and a couple of pottery cups from one of the shelves.

“Here,” the angel said. “Drink this, no complaints, every last drop.”

The demon took a sip of something that tasted a bit like warmed wine but also had an astringent, herbacious aftertaste. Was that borage? Parsley? He grimaced but complied, drinking it down as quickly as he could, then blinked into the fire and felt something uncoil inside himself as he started to warm up.

“Nice place you have here, Aziraphale,” the demon said as soon as his jaw loosened up enough to allow him to speak without clattering. “Small. Cluttered. Very warm. It suits you.”

“Oh, thank you,” the angel said with a pleased smile. “It’s not much, but I like it. I’m here helping Richard of Wallingford with his library. Brilliant man, he’s designing a clock that tracks not only the time but the ebb and flow of the local tides and the movement of the sun and moon – it’s quite ingenious!”

Crowley made a face. “Sounds… entertaining.”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue reprovingly but let it go. “What on earth happened to bring you here?”

“Oh, that,” Crowley said, embarrassed. “Been making my way back to England after the big battle between the Catalans and the Duchy of Athens. Fomenting discord on both sides, messy business.” He shuddered and moved a little closer to the fire. “You know how much I hate wars. Soon as I could, I got out of there all together and headed back for England, but I ran into a little trouble on the boat home. Someone got a glimpse of my eyes at the wrong moment and – well, you know. Ended up thrown overboard and had to swim for it.”

“You swam home? From Greece?” Aziraphale all but shrieked.

“No, no,” Crowley said. “We went overland most of the way – I only swam from the northern border of Flanders.”

“And then?”

“And then I stole a horse and rode it until the bugger threw me off and stomped on my arm in the process, and then I walked the rest of the way here.”

Aziraphale sighed. “So, I’m to understand you’ve been cold and wet and – and freezing to death for something like a week?”

Crowley shrugged and curled his shoulders in on himself, pulling the blanket tighter around him.

“Well that won’t do at all,” he said. “Excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back,” he said, wrapping his cloak around himself again and heading out into the cold. He made his way quickly to the abbey kitchens, where he patted the sleepy kitchen dogs on the head, then rummaged around in the larder until he found a little leftover bread, a few cheeses, and a crock of soup from earlier in the day. He tucked it all in a basket, pulled his hood over his head again, and headed back out into the driving rain one last time.

The soup went right into the kettle to warm up, and the bread and cheese he divided into portions and handed to Crowley directly, who took a tentative nibble and then, upon finding nothing poisonous, gobbled it down much too quickly. It looked, Aziraphale thought sadly, like he’d had nothing to eat in quite some time. Not that either of them truly needed to eat, but their physical corporations were prone to the same cold and fatigue as humans were, and were comforted by warmth and food and wine in equal turn.

Later, soup consumed and clothing dry, the demon stood up and stretched. “Well, thank you for the hospitality, Aziraphale,” he said firmly, “but I can see that space is tight here and I’m feeling much better – I’ll just be getting back on the road, then.”

Aziraphale sputtered. “You’ll do no such thing, demon. If you think I’m going to turn you out on a night like this, you have another idea coming.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow threateningly. “As if you could stop me.”

The angel placed himself between the demon and the door and looked completely uncowed. “I’m not going to _have_ to stop you, because you are going to be sensible and lie down and get some sleep, and have another few meals with me, and regain some strength before you head off on whatever is next on your list of infernal temptations.”

They glared, eye to eye, for a moment that stretched into infinity, and then something inside Crowley just gave out.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “If you’re sure I won’t be putting you out.”

“What’s mine is yours, Crowley,” he said. “I hold to the old Greek ways, you know. Xenia, caring for the traveler with whatever you have. Friend or foe, I wouldn’t turn anyone out into this storm. And you are far from a foe.”

The demon turned away toward the fire to hide the warmth that suddenly bloomed in his cheeks. Aziraphale, seeming to understand, shepherded him towards the mat in the warmest corner of the room.

“Take the bed, demon,” he said quietly. “I rarely use it and it’s the warmest corner of the house. I’ll be working on a translation all night and you won’t disturb me at all.”

Before he knew what was happening, the demon found himself settled on a mat of hay and fragrant herbs, covered in both of the angel’s wool blankets, wearing the angel’s best tunic and a pair of dry socks that had been all but forced on him, his belly full and his insides warm for the first time in days. The last sight he had as he drifted off to an almost immediate sleep was of the angel, the ridiculous angel who was so ridiculously good that he’d give a demon the last of his food and the very shirt off his back, sitting at the table with a small, smelly candle burning next to him, scratching away at a piece of parchment with a quill.

He slept for three days, and when he awoke, the angel smiled at him and held out a ready bowl of porridge.

Ridiculous, he thought fondly to himself as he headed out on yet another horse the next morning, bound for Scotland. It’s a wonder anyone that generous can survive at all in this world.

The thought kept him unusually warm for the next several days. And if the sun shone and the weather was a little more hospitable as well, that could very well be coincidence, couldn’t it? Didn’t have to be angelic intervention.

He knew that it was, though.


	3. Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes over a difficult job.

_Agape – selfless love, love for humanity, unconditional love, charitable acts, without expectation of reward or acknowledgment._

**London, 1517**

Crowley was lounging in the somewhat deserted palace at Richmond in the summer of 1517 when it happened. It had been an unusually cold winter followed by a brutally hot summer, and the dreaded sweating sickness had returned for another rampage through the upper classes of London, leading Henry to gather Catherine and his court and flee for the countryside, leaving just a handful of courtiers in London to forward documents and deal with emergencies. Crowley was one of these, officially charged with overseeing the king’s stables in his absence. How he ended up in charge of a pile of horses who hated him, he couldn’t say – he suspected it might be an infernal punishment for a series of late reports. Nonetheless, he spent a few moments each day terrorizing the stable hands into doing excellent and thorough jobs and terrifying the horses into complying with their ministrations, and then allowed himself to live a life of indulgence and idleness. It was perfection.

On this particular morning, though, he was awoken not by the gentle beams of sun breaking through his heavy velvet curtains but by a sudden and icy sense that something was wrong. 

Something was wrong with Aziraphale. 

He threw on some appropriate clothing, found himself the least objectionable horse (in this case, a horse so stupid and dull as to barely even notice that he had a rider, not to mention a demonic one), and headed off into the bowels of London to hone in on the source of the distress he was feeling. 

He found the source at a decrepit trade hall close to the shores of the Thames. Tying the stupid horse roughly at the door, he wandered in and staggered just a bit at the initial discovery – a seething, smelly pit of the dead and dying, laid out across the floor on rough pallets. The smell of infection was thick in the air, and the only sounds to be heard were the moans and entreaties of the ill. 

And there, in the middle of it all, was Aziraphale, wearing a dirty white shift, and administering to each of them. 

Bloody hell.

“Angel,” Crowley said, turning off his need to breathe for the moment and striding across the floor to where the angel was huddled near a wash basin, rinsing out rags. “What on earth are you doing here?”

The angel turned to him, surprise etched on his features. “Crowley!” he said weakly. “One could ask the same of you!”

Crowley paused for a moment to take him in. Aziraphale looked wretched. He was pale as parchment, sweat literally running down his brow; his lips were cracked, and he was shivering wretchedly. 

“Angel, you’re ill,” Crowley said. “Why are you on your feet?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s just the sweating sickness. I’ve had it four times already.” 

“Just the – just the –“ Crowley tried hard not to shout, he did, but found that his mind absolutely insisted on volume. “Of all the idiotic things I’ve ever heard you say that has to take the cake. You’ve got the sweating sickness? Do you know how many people have died from that, angel?” 

Aziraphale turned and tiredly waved a hand around the large room behind them and the seventy or so people of all ages who were laid out in various stages of disarray around them. 

“I do believe you could infer from our surroundings that I’m quite aware of it,” he reproved gently. “I’m caring for them. The locals bring their ill to me and I see them through it, as best I can.” He paused and swallowed hard. “Or I see them on their way, as it goes. Usually the latter.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Well that’s all very noble and good but not at your own expense, angel. You’re not immune, obviously, and you’re suffering. Who’s going to care for them if _you_ discorporate?” 

Aziraphale wiped his forehead tiredly and picked up his basin, heading back out onto the floor. “No one. Which is why I refuse to let it kill me.” 

Crowley made a noise that was half-rage, half-despair, and followed the angel on his rounds. He stopped and spooned broth into the mouths of those who could still eat and wiped down the faces of those who could not with a cold, wet rag. He whispered words of comfort to those who were suffering the most, and stopped at a few bedsides to hold a hand and then gently close the eyes of ones who had departed. It was endless, heart breaking work, and the demon didn’t understand how he could do it.

After an hour of being relentlessly pestered by the demon, Aziraphale finally agreed to a short break and led the demon out into the courtyard, where he’d set up a small area for his own use, more of a tent, really, with a bedroll inside and a few meagre possessions scattered throughout. Crowley pushed him down onto the bedroll and set about rummaging for food, and when he found very little, he snapped his fingers and materialized a thick bowl of stew and a loaf of dark bread which he pushed into the angel’s hands.

“Eat,” he growled, and the angel, looking frighteningly gray, did so. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I do feel rather wretched.” 

Crowley summoned up a jug of clean, clear water and handed it to him without a word. The angel took a long draught and then slumped, leaning his head onto his knees. 

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” the angel said. “You have no idea how much good that did me. I must get back, though.” He attempted to rise to his feet, only to stagger back down onto his backside rather hard. He blinked twice and broke out in a fresh set of shivers. 

“Over my dead body, angel,” the demon said. “You’re sick and you’re not leaving this tent until you get some rest.” 

“Crowley, they’ve no one else to care for them,” the angel protested. “Most of them are going to die in the next twelve hours and those that aren’t need care. And there are new arrivals all the time!” 

“You are not working yourself to death on my watch, angel,” Crowley scolded. “Lie down and sleep and then we will see about you going back out there.”

Aziraphale did a hand-waving gesture that Crowley knew, just knew, was an attempt to use angelic influence on him, and smiled weakly as he made his way to his feet again, with more success this time. 

“Now, dear, there’s no need to get upset. I’m just fine.”

Crowley glared. Hard. Using influence on him? Healthy Aziraphale wouldn’t _dare_ , they had established the rules ages ago and to stray from them like this would usually be cause for a rather major fight, which they both preferred to avoid as much as possible. But, he reminded himself, this Aziraphale was sick, out of his ever-loving mind with repeated illness and grief and working himself to and then past the point of exhaustion. He could abuse him later for this little breach of protocol; right now, he needed to save his life. 

“No,” he said tiredly. “I’ll do it. You rest, please?”

Aziraphale blinked. “You’re going to care for them?”

“Yep,” said Crowley, effecting nonchalance. “Course I will. I promise. But only if you rest.”

Aziraphale looked at him consideringly for a long, long moment, and then sat back down on the bedroll. “I would appreciate that, my dear, it’s been days since I’ve even sat down.” He flopped down onto his side and appeared to fall almost immediately to sleep. 

Crowley watched him for a few minutes, then, when he was sure he was really out, he crouched down and laid his hands on the angel’s chest. He closed his eyes and committed a little breach of protocol of his own, reaching out with his ethereal form into Aziraphale’s core, finding the source of infection there and erasing it. He also strengthened his immune system considerably so that he would no longer be susceptible to this insidious disease, which could hit the same patient over and over and over without mercy. Immunity to the Sweat did not exist. 

Except, now, for Aziraphale. 

Satisfied, he implanted a demonic suggestion for the angel to sleep for an extended period of time, then made his way back into the trade hall to see what he could do. 

\--

“And so, you see,” the demon said, holding the hand of a young girl as he sat on the floor beside her pallet, “the tricky fox escaped from the wolf’s den, and she never realized that the fox carried with her the gold she had stolen from the villagers. Reynaud made his way down the mountain as quickly as he could and when he approached the edge of the village he –”

Aziraphale cleared his throat gently behind Crowley, interrupting the tale. 

“Excuse me,” the angel said to the girl, who looked to be on the mend, “I’ll have him back in a few minutes.” 

“You’re up!” he said to Aziraphale as he followed him back out into the courtyard. The angel appeared much improved. He was no longer sweating, and his cheeks had returned to a more healthy pink. 

“I am,” the angel agreed. “I seem to have slept a bit longer than expected. How long has it been?” 

“A few days,” Crowley said, waving off the question. “Four, tops. You were sick.”

Aziraphale gasped. “A few days? You let me sleep for days?” He looked miserable. “I left you alone with the dead and dying for that long? Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t so bad. Kept them all alive, by the way. Haven’t lost one since you laid down.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, astounded. “How did you do that?”

“Oh, well,” Crowley said, flustered. “You know. Demon stuff.” 

Aziraphale continued to blink at him, and then, unexpectedly, launched himself into the demon’s arms for a hug. 

Crowley patted his back awkwardly, not entirely comfortable with the contact no matter how much he secretly craved it. “There, there,” he muttered, feeling idiotic. “No need for this.” 

Aziraphale pulled back and blinked a few wet tears out of his eyes. “I apologize, I do. I’m just –” he paused and took a breath. “It’s just been so long since I’ve had a day when no one died. I’ve been working so hard to try to fight this off, but I used up my miracles quota weeks ago and I’ve had to just rely on basic care and, well – they all die. Most of them. It’s such a horrible century. I hate it here, sometimes.” 

Crowley led the angel over to a stone bench and they sat down together. “I know,” he said. “But it’s not bad everywhere. We could go off to the Americas – Montezuma II is king right now, and you wouldn’t believe what some of the North American tribes are getting up to. We could go see the cliff dwellings! It’d be fun.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “No, my dear – it sounds lovely, but I’m the protector of England, and I’m afraid I’m needed where I am right now. I’m just going to have to see this wretched century out where I am.”

Crowley thought for a moment. “It’s not entirely wretched, you know. Right now, do you know what’s happening?” Aziraphale shook his head. “A very interesting young man over in Wittenburg is writing his life’s great work, calls in the ‘Ninety Five Theses’. He’s going to take down the sale of indulgences, angel! He’s got all of the corruption of the holy catholic church dead in his sights, and he’s going to expose everything they’re doing wrong. Could change everything!”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in interest. “Oh, that does sound interesting!” He frowned as something occurred to him. “And quite dangerous. I do hope he isn’t burned.” 

Crowley nodded. “Perhaps he needs a protector,” he said. “Once you’re done here, that is.” 

Aziraphale smiled the first real smile that Crowley could remember seeing since he arrived. “Perhaps he does,” he said. “My dear, you’re going to have to keep your role in all of this very quiet, you realize. Coming here and selflessly caring for the dying for nearly a week – it’s practically like you’re trying to personify Agape.”

“Agape?” Crowley said, looking like he knew he should be affronted if only he could remember the word. 

“You know,” the angel said. “Charitable love. Selfless giving.” 

“Stop it,” the demon grumbled. “You know I’m nothing of the sort. I hate those kind of things.”

“Without expectation or reward,” the angel continued, still smiling. “Loving humanity for their own sake.”

“Oh, for hellfire’s sake,” the demon groused. “I wasn’t selfless, I did it for you. And you owe me a huge favor for this one, so it’s not like there’s no reward.” 

“You’re right,” the angel said. “Of course, you’re right. What could I be thinking of?”

But he continued to smile like he knew a secret for the rest of the day. Crowley tried hard to ignore him, simply glad the angel was back in good enough health to return to annoying him nearly half to death. 

If that was the price he had to pay, it was worth it.


	4. Philautia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's healthy self-love, and then there's Crowley's way of doing things. Aziraphale makes a blunder and Crowley gets a little.. extra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> < _>_

_Philautia – internal love, love of the self, healthy self care_

**London, modern day**

Aziraphale was _glaring_ at him.

There was no way around it; from the other side of the open field, Aziraphale had definitely taken on a defensive stance, hands on his hips, and was shooting him a most displeased glare.

Crowley looked around, just in case there was someone else behind him who might have been the intended recipient, and was disappointed to find there was no one anywhere near him.

“What’d I do?” he muttered to himself, cramming his hands in his pockets and being entirely sure he was just about to find out.

Sure enough, the angel appeared in front of him very shortly and the chin wagging started almost immediately.

“Crowley,” the angel said crossly, “it’s freezing and you’ve been out here watching over these ducklings for nearly 72 hours. You’re going to make yourself ill.” He thrust a thermos of hot tea at him and stared imperiously until Crowley downed a cup.

“I’m not!” the demon protested. “I won’t! I just – their mother has been a little overwhelmed and they need someone to watch over them while she tries to find food!”

“Their mother is doing a perfectly fine job,” Aziraphale insisted.

“BUT THERE WAS A FOX!” Crowley shouted. He didn’t mean to. He was stressed, and exhausted, and literally freezing. He didn’t have quite the restraint he usually did.

“Four days ago, Crowley,” the angel breathed. “You saw a fox four days ago. The ducklings will be fine. Please come home.”

Crowley folded his own arms over his chest and glared back. “Only if you protect them.”

Aziraphale waved a hand over the ducklings’ hiding place beneath the forsythia bush, and then straightened up. “There. Nothing besides their mother will ever find them under there. Now, shall we?”

The demon allowed himself to be led home.

\--

Once they were back in the shop, his husband wrapped him up in blankets and positioned his chair close to the fire and dropped another mug of very warm tea into his hands. Then he pulled a chair up across from him and continued the lecture, as if it had never been interrupted.

“Dearest,” he said, “you really need to stop taking such dramatic risks with yourself.”

“’m not dramatic,” the demon sulked dramatically.

“Oh really?” Aziraphale fixed him with a steely gaze. “You have powers, you know. You didn’t literally have to stand guard in the park in a cold snap over the ducklings. You could have protected them like I just did. You could have checked on them a few times a day. No reason to stand out there in the cold while your serpent-based body temperature gets lower and lower.”

“I hate foxes,” Crowley snarked. “You know that. Too wily for that to work.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I think you’re just refusing to take good care of yourself because you still feel badly about getting kicked out of Heaven.”

A thunderous silence settled around them, and even Aziraphale looked slightly shocked at what he had just said.

“I mean – what I meant was –”

“I know what you meant,” Crowley snapped. “Heard it perfectly the first time. So you think I don’t take good care of myself because of poor self-esteem, do you? Because Mom didn’t love me?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “No, she loves you! You know that now! I was just saying that you don’t practice loving and caring for yourself as much as you might, because you were essentially raised in Hell, and that’s not a big thing there –”

“Oh, this is getting better and better,” the demon said. “I love myself! I love myself just fine!”

“Of course you do, dearest,” Aziraphale said. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“Don’t apologize! I hate being apologized to.” Crowley launched himself to his feet. “In fact, I think I’ll go do some self care right now, angel. No one is better than me at self care. You’ll see.”

And with that, he slammed out of the office and pounded up the back stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind him when he reached their room.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale fretted, watching him go.

\--

In the bedroom, Crowley threw himself on the bed and sulked. Stupid angel. He practiced self care. He did! Didn’t he? He frowned. He really had no idea what that term really meant. He certainly wasn’t sitting around giving himself hugs. What exactly was he supposed to be doing that he wasn’t?

As always, when stuck in a corner of his own devising, Crowley turned to the internet to find out what he ought to do.

 _Self care,_ he typed into google. _How to. Easy._

“Ah, there we go!” he said, as an article came up entitled ’50 Ways to Start Practicing Self Care’.

He laid down on the bed to read and began planning his day.

Lucky for Crowley, he was immediately able to cross thirteen items off the list as things he already did regularly. He definitely believed in getting enough sleep, maintaining a regular bedtime routine, getting some fresh air, and eating regularly. He tended to hydrate well (if you counted wine), and he definitely showered and wore clean clothes. Really, this stuff was a breeze.

He made a few notes on other things he could use to make a point, though, and did a little research.

An hour later, he wandered downstairs and paused in front of an astonished Aziraphale who looked him over from top to toe.

“What – what are you wearing?” the angel asked.

“Leggings,” the demon replied coldly. “I’m going to yoga. It’s part of my new self care routine.” He manifested a radish and took a large bite out of it and tried not to gag. “Just as soon as I finish eating this vegetable. Have to take care of myself, you see.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes for just a moment as if talking to Heaven. “You’re going to yoga.”

“Hot yoga, actually,” Crowley snipped, taking another terrible bite of the radish. “See you later!”

He flounced out the door without a backwards glance.

“Well,” Aziraphale commented to the walls around him. “That’ll show me.”

\--

Hot yoga, he discovered, was actually somewhat fun. 100 degrees was nowhere near too hot for him, and it was easy for him with his slightly higher than average amount of vertebrae to slither into and out of each position. He schmoozed with the instructor and a few of the people around him, and ended up going out for a drink with them after.

The drink, however, turned out to be wheatgrass, which he was pretty sure checked off several more items on the list, so he drank it, despite how disgusting it tasted. And then, just to be demonic, he ordered an extra one and brought it home for Aziraphale.

“Here,” he said shortly, slapping it down on the kitchen table where the angel was working on some kind of a document. “Brought you a wheatgrass. It’s healthy.”

The angel blinked up at him. “Wheatgrass?”

“It’s a juice. Made from grass, apparently. It’s part of my new self care ritual. Went to yoga, check. Went out with friends, check. Drank a vegetable, check. Got some roughage, check. I’m doing really well on this.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be a race to the finish line, Crowley.”

“Can’t talk,” the demon called. “I need to go take a bubble bath and then make a mood board. Enjoy your grass.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

\--

Aziraphale went looking for him a few hours later. He found Crowley in the bedroom, sitting cross legged over by the window, eyes closed, doing something or other. He wasn’t sure what.

“So, did you make your mood board?” Aziraphale asked brightly.

“Mmm hmmm,” Crowley mumbled, not opening his eyes.

Aziraphale sounded uncertain, even to himself. “I wondered if I could see it, was all.”

Crowley uncurled one sharp-looking finger and pointed to the corner behind the dresser where there was a piece of posterboard.

Aziraphale stood undecidedly for a moment, then shrugged. It looked like permission to him. He picked up the poster, sat down on the bed and turned it over with a little twinge of excitement, expecting a series of small pictures showing colors and images that related to things Crowley was thinking about..

It was black.

Painted black, edge to edge. There were places where the black paint had been thickened to include some texture, like black on black ridges, and places where someone had clearly run a thumb through it to make swoops. But it was completely, entirely, one hundred percent black.

“And – and what is this supposed to show?” the angel asked.

“Meditating,” Crowley said. “Very important. Can’t talk.”

“This is a little extra, dear, even for you.”

Crowley cracked an eye open in surprise. “You know how to use the word extra, like correctly and in context and all?”

“Let’s just say I’ve had a crash course in it, dearest,” the angel said archly. “And you are the most extra of all the extras around. Can we please have a rational discussion about this?”

Crowley slowly and carefully unfolded himself from the floor and leaned against the windowsill, looking stubborn. “I’m not sure what there is to talk about. I’m doing what you said.”

“You are not.” Aziraphale looked and sounded exasperated. “You’re just trying to get back at me for the falling comment by being incredibly over-the-top and doing every kind of self care known to man in a single day.”

“It was a mean comment,” Crowley muttered.

“It was,” Aziraphale said, simply. “I’m so very sorry, my dear. I don’t know how that came out of my mouth.”

They both sat with that for a moment.

“You _know_ , though, that this isn’t what I meant about taking care of yourself.”

Crowley, for once, dropped his defenses. “What _did_ you mean, then, angel?”

Aziraphale stared at his hands for a moment as if trying to read the answer there. “I meant that I love you. Desperately. And because I love you, I don’t want you to harm yourself. I want _you_ to love yourself and take care of yourself because you’re precious. To me. And you don’t want any harm to me, so therefore, no harm can come to _you_.”

Crowley blinked hard a few times. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I argue with you?”

“You’ll find a way, I’m sure.”

The demon scoffed. “Maybe later.” He thought for a minute. “Might stick with the hot yoga, though. Kind of liked it. The instructor said I was surprisingly flexible.”

“Oh, did he?” Aziraphale said with a small and unmistakable huff that he did his best to hide.

“He did.” Crowley grinned, enjoying a small moment of revenge. And then, like the sucker he was, he relented. “You should come with next time. You might like it.”

“Oh, I don’t think that would be a good idea at all,” Aziraphale fussed. “I don’t think there’s any part of the universe in which me wearing leggings and getting botheringly warm is a good idea.”

He straightened his bowtie and cuffs as if in self-defense at the very thought.

Crowley, watching him, was unable to retain for a second longer his sense of having been wronged. He probably shouldn’t have been standing outside in the winter for three days straight. Even if he couldn’t get the flu, he still got cold, and he had to admit that somewhere around the 36 hour mark, his rational brain, always quick to take the first train out of town at the slightest provocation, had checked out entirely. If the angel hadn’t come and fetched him, he probably would’ve frozen to the spot and had to hibernate until spring.

“I guess I could be a little more careful,” he said quietly. “Not to, you know, get too cold and stuff.”

Aziraphale beamed at him and leaned in for a kiss. “That would be lovely, my dear. Thank you.”

“My mood’s not really that bad,” Crowley admitted. “Just painted it black for fun.”

“Oh, but I think it’s lovely!” Aziraphale insisted with a grin, picking up the mood board from where it had been discarded and heading out the door to the stairs. “Very modern. I’m going to put it up over my desk!”

Crowley rolled his eyes and followed the angel down into the shop. He was going to have to distract the angel before he actually did hang it up and then proceeded to “brag” about Crowley’s artistic talent to everyone he encountered.

Kissing should do the trick, he thought. It usually did.


	5. Ludus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laughter through the ages.

_Ludus – playful love, accompanied by laughter, without need for security or roots_

**Brussels, 1704**

Crowley had thought many times over the years about what his favorite thing about Aziraphale was, and he had to admit it was probably his laugh. Sure, sometimes the angel was a little prim and fussy, tried to hide his humor and sense of fun behind an impenetrable façade of duty, but when it really came down to it, the angel was literally just bubbling over with joy, most of the time. The fact that he didn’t laugh often really came down to the fact that Heaven seemed to do its best to prevent him from ever feeling good enough about himself to laugh. 

The demon took it upon himself to do something about that. 

It’s not like demons tended to laugh a lot either – or rather they did, but not in a particularly friendly way. Demons were always cackling at something, jabbering cruelly over someone’s failures, chortling at the pain and suffering they caused. But that wasn’t _joyful_. That was something else entirely. 

He first sensed it in Aziraphale in the bar in 41 AD when Aziraphale made his first blunder, asking if he could tempt him into trying some oysters, then stopping suddenly with a sly look of innocence on his face and trying to dig himself out of the hole he’d created. He’d done his best to appear exemplary and irreproachable. But Crowley, highly amused, noted a small flash of intentional humor in his eyes, and filed that knowledge away. There was more to this angel than met the eye. By the end of their dinner that night, he had Aziraphale rolling with laughter at the antics of the noble families he’d been part of. He left feeling a warm glow inside that lightened his load considerably over the next few weeks. 

From that moment on, he sought the angel out not so much out of loneliness – although that was sometimes the case, but more often out of a desire for just a taste of that happiness and humor, without the need for anything more. He told himself it was just to see how far he could get the angel to go – could he tell him more scandalous gossip? How would the angel respond to a ribald joke? Could he – dare he – encourage him to poke fun at his superiors? Some of these experiments failed spectacularly, with a baleful look and a “really, demon, that’s hardly appropriate.” But mostly, they succeeded. 

Aziraphale had many types of laughs, too, he’d noticed. He had, first off, a nervous giggle that wasn’t so much humor as anxiety leaking out through his vocal chords. That was his ‘I really shouldn’t be laughing with you about this’ laugh. He had a small chortle he saved for scandalous information that he only somewhat disapproved of. He had a throaty laugh, a mocking laugh that meant he was secretly angry, and, best of all, a delighted, full body laugh that practically split his face open when something truly delighted or surprised him.

They’d met up this time in Brussels, to check in on the arrangement and their respective work in London and Versailles. Crowley’s French court had recently blown half of Brussels to smithereens, and the city was busy rebuilding at a frantic pace and still functioning as an important center for commerce in spite of it. The demon had been sent here to throw a wrench into the rebuilding of an important shrine, and Aziraphale had been sent to ensure that its reconstruction succeeded admirably. They’d decided to get together and try to come up with a solution that would make both of their respective bosses happy. 

The problem had been easily solved – a quick thwarting and squirreling away of the most important sacred relic of the site would be enough to report the shrine permanently befouled, and after Crowley’s report to hell had cleared, Aziraphale could miraculously re-discover the missing bones and return them to the shrine with all the pomp and circumstance that Heaven loved so well. A win-win for both sides, leaving them the rest of their visit to gossip.

“And then,” Crowley said, continuing a particularly ribald story of Louis the XIV’s latest party game, “they decided that just making the ducks _race_ in the card parlours wasn’t enough, and decided they ought to see what it might be like if someone actually tried to –" 

“Stop, stop, you infernal demon,” the angel moaned, clutching his sides as he tried to catch his breath from laughter and wiping the tears that were leaking out of the corner of his eyes. “I’m an angel, it’s completely wrong for me to know what goes on at these types of parties!”

Crowley sat back and took a sip of his ale from the large flagon in front of him and grinned in great satisfaction. “I disagree, angel,” he drawled. “I think it could be extremely useful for you to know exactly which body parts make the best surfaces for inhaling powders from, and exactly what ducks are getting up to when they aren’t busy swimming. What if you need to fit in at the French court someday?”

Aziraphale giggled and wiped the rest of the tears away. “I can’t imagine that will ever be the case,” he said. “I’m assigned to England. Thank goodness, I must say! The more you tell me about it, the less I’m inclined to ever go there!”

Crowley leaned forward. “Ah, but I think that means that they need you, angel. It’s not like they have a principality of their own, after all. Just think of the work you could do, reforming Louis and Marie and their court of reprobates.” He took another long sip and winked conspiratorially. “Could be quite a feather in your cap.” 

Aziraphale gave a look. “I have my hands quite full just dealing with Queen Anne, thank you,” he said primly, then rolled his eyes, unable to resist the urge to gossip. “Oh, my goodness, you think your court is bad, you should see hers. She’s truly more interested in her dozens of pet rabbits than she is in ruling. Why just the other day –”

Crowley sat back and listened happily while scanning the tavern they were seated in for any signs of trouble. Aziraphale rattled on in an exasperated but pleasant manner about the foibles of the English court for the next hour or so, with Crowley making sure to gasp at the appropriate points and prod him on to greater revelations at the right moments. By the time they parted, his face hurt from smiling. 

This was, he had to admit, a quite rare sensation for Hell’s serpent, tempter of Eve, to experience. 

“Well, my dear,” Aziraphale said as they walked out of the tavern and up the stairs to their respective rooms for the night, “it’s been lovely as always catching up with you. Good luck stealing the relic later tonight – do be careful to send someone else in for you to get them so you don’t burn yourself too badly, and make sure to wrap it carefully before you leave it in the cave for me to find. Wouldn’t do to have the reliquary crack.” 

“Don’t worry,” the demon said with a wink. “I’ll be careful. Protect it like it’s one of hell’s own, I will.” 

Aziraphale frowned for a moment at that image, then shook his head. He paused at his door and looked up at Crowley almost expectantly. He looked, the demon thought, happy and pleased, and almost like he was waiting on something. What that was, he couldn’t imagine. The demon knew where the lines were between them and made sure never to seriously cross them, and following the angel into his bedchambers at night was certainly one great big line that all but had flashing lights over it, warning him away. The angel was too pure for anything he might desire in that fashion, and he intended to keep him that way, no matter what his heart might feel. 

“See you around, angel,” he said with a smile, and wandered away without a backwards look. 

“Good night,” the angel called a moment later, his voice sounding almost forlorn. 

The demon paid it no mind. He had no designs on the angel, wanted no recompense for his company. It was just nice, once in a while, to laugh with someone who understood you. 

It was really all he needed.


	6. Storge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Mesopotamia provokes a long separation. Crowley takes on a decade or two of parenting. And eventually, they forgive each other, and themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an angsty one! Forewarning for, well, the events of the flood and all that entails.

_Storge – the love parents feel for a child, love that knows sacrifice, and acceptance, and forgiveness._

**Mesopotamia, 3004**

Crowley showed up, as he always did, without warning, just as the first drops of rain were falling on Noah and his family.

The demon was not at all pleased to find out what the plan was. He spent the first hours of the day asking inconvenient questions. Surely not the children? You can’t kill kids? Aziraphale, discomfited, tried to stick to the party line, but he could feel the weakness of his responses and was mortified by them. He had to admit, he did NOT understand. Not at all. Not in the least.

As the rain continued to fall and the waters deepened, Crowley began to get increasingly angry. He kept popping up as Aziraphale helped Noah and Shem shepherd the animals onto the boat, usually with a child or two under his arms.

“You have to put them on the boat, angel,” he snarled. “They’re innocent. Sneak them in with the sheep. They won’t be any trouble.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pleaded. “I can’t break orders. I have to do as I’m told. I don’t understand it either.”

“LOOK AT THEM!” Crowley shouted, holding two terrified, dirty little urchins up in front of his unwilling eyes. “They are CHILDREN! How can you call yourself an angel?”

Aziraphale, rooted to the spot, stared helplessly into their eyes, and then turned away. What could he do? If he took a few of them, he’d never be able to stop himself from taking them all. He doubted his ability to hide any of them from the family. And he’d already put himself on dangerous ground by lying to God once; he wasn’t sure what would happen to him if he forsook his morals again.

Crowley sighed in disgust and snapped his fingers, and he and the children disappeared. Probably into the bowels of the ship, Aziraphale thought. The water was already deepening alarmingly. He suspected it wasn’t just rain but possibly a dam breaking on a nearby lake – no storm could raise the waters this quickly. Another half hour and the boat would be afloat. He tried to close his ears to the wailing around him, and his heart ached for it.

He caught a glimpse of Crowley a few more times, his black tunic snapping in the wind as he rounded up more people, trying to guide them to higher ground. He was sure he saw him disappear into thin air a few more times, with children under his arms. He knew, unfortunately, that he was going to have to do something about this eventually. But for the moment, he ignored the knowledge.

That evening, with the boat finally afloat and the world a featureless void, Aziraphale had a somber supper with Noah and his family and then offered to take the first shift of checking on the animals. He had to find out what Crowley had gotten up to, and he needed to be the first to know.

He found him, eventually, bedded down with the lone unicorn in the very back of the lowest level. The demon was completely bedraggled, his black cloak dripping and sodden, with a dozen small children clutched and shivering around him. He wrapped his arms protectively around them and glared at the angel with what seemed like true hatred in his eyes.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” the angel said simply. He was too heart sick to argue. Twelve. Crowley had saved twelve children. He’d killed hundreds today through his inaction. He wanted nothing more than to curl up on the hay with them and be comforted, but he knew he’d lost the right.

“I’m warning you, angel,” the demon spat, standing up and putting his frame between the angel and the children. “I will fight you if I have to. You are not turning them out. I do not want to discorporate you, but I will in a heartbeat.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m not here to fight you,” he said. “I brought blankets. And bread.”

He handed out his bundles to the demon, who didn’t relax his fighting stance at all and made no move to take them. With a heavy heart, Aziraphale slowly and carefully laid the items at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I truly am. I’ll make sure no one bothers you here.”

Crowley softened slightly but continued to stare angrily at him. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.

He helped them as much as he could – he continued to bring them food, and essentially wiped the family’s memory of the existence of unicorns at all, so that everyone stayed away from that one corner of the ship and didn’t notice the presence of the beings hiding there. Through it all, though, Crowley was distant and hostile and almost nearly as horrified with him as he was with himself. He wandered the boat, looking at all of the extra places they could have fit more of them. More people. More innocents.

More children.

Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, after they’d found dry land and docked and Crowley and his posse had mysteriously disappeared, perhaps what Crowley needed most was for him to leave him alone for a while. Perhaps they were not friends anymore. He hoped they might be again someday.

**Crete, 1880 BCE**

Aziraphale was sitting on a bench in the gardens when he saw a familiar shape emerge from between two statues at the other end of the courtyard. He hadn’t seen Crowley in centuries; not at all for a few hundred years after Mesopotamia, and then only on rare occasions thereafter. He suspected that Crowley had abandoned Europe for the far east, or beyond to the Americas.

“I should’ve known you’d be here,” Crowley said, making his way to join him. “May I?”

Aziraphale scooted over and made room for him. “I’ve been here for a few years. They’ve invented writing, Crowley! It’s so exciting! And the pottery wheel. And they’ve made this lovely new thing called a sphinx – have you seen them?”

“I’ve seen them. A little too catlike for my tastes. But I admit, it’s interesting here.” He looked around. “I like the palace. Nice geometric accents.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said. “And where have you been?”

“Oh, you know –” Crowley said vaguely. “Around. Mostly China. They’re forming the first dynasty over there. You’d like it – they’ve made silk, they’ve got these fabulous musical instruments that you won’t see elsewhere, they’ve got laws and medicine.”

Aziraphale hummed with interest. “Perhaps I’ll make a stop there one of these days. If I’m sent, of course.”

Crowley gazed at him for a moment. “I’m sorry, by the way,” he finally said, sounding a bit like he was strangling on his tongue.

“For what?” Aziraphale said, puzzled.

“Oh, you know,” he said. “The flood thing. I know you probably would’ve fallen if you’d disobeyed. You must’ve felt terrible about it.”

Aziraphale swallowed. Of all the things he’d expected, an apology was not among them. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Crowley. You were right. We could have saved so many more. I should have – I should have helped you.”

“You did help. Only kept those twelve alive because of you.”

Aziraphale shrugged, the old feelings of shame rising up again. “I lied to Her once, you know.”

“Lied to who?”

“To HER,” Aziraphale said. “You know. God.”

“You what?” Every aspect of Crowley’s being came to a screeching halt as he focused all of his energies on Aziraphale. “When? How? What happened?”

“Right after you left the garden,” he said miserably. “I had just finished closing up the wall and suddenly a beam of light appeared, and God asked me about my sword. Where it was, to be exact. And I, well, I lied. Said I’d misplaced it. Made like I was looking at it.”

Crowley looked dumbstruck. “There’s no way she didn’t know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale breathed. “I was terrified for centuries after that. But she just – went on. With her business. Never brought it up again. But I suppose I always felt from that point on like I was on quite thin ice when it came to it, with the Almighty.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement. “You probably were.”

“So, for a long time I felt like I couldn’t toe outside the line in any way again. Whatever horrible orders they gave me, I just went along with it. Helped destroy Sodom. Plagues in Egypt. Not interfering.” He stopped, hoping Crowley understood his rather poor explanation.

He did, of course. Crowley was good that way.

“You couldn’t have helped. Not any more than you did.”

“I should’ve,” Aziraphale said. “It shouldn’t have mattered. I was cowardly.”

“That’s enough of that,” Crowley said gently but firmly. “Do you think I haven’t had to do awful things for my bosses too? It’s part of the job. And I’ve seen you wiggle out of things here and there, make them better, when there’s wiggle room to be found. Hard to find the wiggle room when God Herself is flooding the entire continent and expects to find everyone except for her select twenty people dead.”

He looked closely at the angel. “You’re not a coward. And I do understand.”

Aziraphale looked up at him and, finding no sarcasm or guile in his eyes, visibly relaxed. “Oh, thank you, my dear. I was so hoping we might be friends again someday.”

Crowley looked surprised. “We’ve always been friends. My being mad at you for a couple hundred years doesn’t mean we’re not friends.”

Aziraphale smiled at that. “It would to a human.”

“Well, we’re not human, are we?”

“No,” he said, “we aren’t.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while.

“What happened to those twelve kids you saved?” the angel asked quietly. “I always wanted to know.”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley said, waving a hand. “Same thing that happens to all humans. I ended up taking most of them east, to get out of that region all together. Raised them for another decade or so until they were old enough to go out on their own. They grew up, some of them died, some of them married, some had kids, a few of their lines continued through the centuries. I lost track of the last of them after a few hundred years.”

“They lived their lives,” Aziraphale said. “That’s lovely. You gave that to them.”

“Well,” Crowley said, “don’t let word get around. I eventually got back to proper demon business, after all. And I did my best to, you know, foment them a little.”

Aziraphale doubted that almost entirely.

He felt a warmth bloom in his chest at the thought of the demon raising twelve children. What an interesting concept; Crowley was a constant surprise to him, had been right from the start. He added it to the pile of things he didn’t currently understand, couldn’t currently explain, about their situation, their universe, and their respective positions in it. It was becoming quite a massive pile.

A soft breeze blew through and they both stared into the waters for a few moments. It felt good to be quiet and, for once, at peace with each other. Aziraphale got the feeling they both wanted to linger in that feeling for a bit.

“I saw an interesting olive grove on the way here,” Crowley finally offered. “Want to check it out? The owner has several rather large stores of wine on his property. We could act as buyers and see what he has to sample.”

Aziraphale looked up with a smile. “That would be delightful, my dear.”

“Fine, good,” the demon said, standing up. “We’ll be business partners from the south looking for new suppliers. I’m the owner, you’re the uppity northerner who’s been apprenticed to me to learn the trade.”

“Why do I have to be the apprentice?” Aziraphale whined.

“Because it’s my idea, angel,” the demon said blithely. “Now stop arguing or I’ll dock your pay.”

“You don’t pay me, I’m an apprentice!” Aziraphale retorted.

“I pay you in gruel.”

“Oh, how lovely of you. Dock my gruel, please.”

“Now come on,” Crowley said, laughing, holding out a hand to help the angel up. “You’re going to want to taste everything he has.”


	7. Philia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley focuses on giving Aziraphale what he needs.

_Philia – brotherly love, affectionate concern, loyalty, giving someone what they need_

**London, present day**

Every now and then, it happened. A summons to Heaven, followed by an unusually morose angel. Crowley knew the signs after all of these years. He could tell almost as soon as he walked into the shop – instead of the usually warm, golden feeling of Aziraphale’s spirit filling up the space, there would be a more subdued, grayed feel to the surroundings. 

This was proving to be one of those mornings. Even the front door looked droopy, its shade hanging at half mast, the closed sign out of alignment (a happy Aziraphale never left anything less than perfectly centered), and a general sense of defeat in the air. Crowley took a deep breath, stealed himself, and entered. 

“Aziraphale? You here?” he called, and wandered back into the office, where he found Aziraphale slumped at his desk, dutifully scribbling away on his ledgers.

“Oh, hello,” he said, doing his best to form a cheerful smile. He waved at the couch. “Make yourself at home, I just need to finish up a few things…”

“What,” Crowley said with quiet intensity, “did they do to you this time?”

Aziraphale blinked. “What? What on earth are you talking about?” 

Crowley eyed him. “I know you. You only look like this after you’ve been called up to Heaven and taken to task for something stupid.” 

Aziraphale sighed and put down his fountain pen. “Well, you’re not wrong about that,” he said, rolling his neck out tiredly. “Annual performance review today. That’s always a good time.” 

Crowley made a rude noise. “Annual performance review, my ass. What do they know?” 

“Apparently quite a bit,” Aziraphale said. “They had a print out of all of my frivolous miracles from the last year, a list of all of the situations where I didn’t quite follow instructions to the letter, and – oh this was fun, a list of all the times I swore. Did you know I swore 27 times this year? Apparently I set a new record for field agents.” 

“That’s really more like something to be proud of, I think,” Crowley offered. 

“And that’s not the worst of it,” the angel continued. “The worst is that Gabriel decided perhaps adding more people to our discussion would be extra motivating to me. He brought in the whole gang – Uriel, Michael, Sandalphon – and had them listen as he read out all of my misdeeds.” He shuddered. “They laughed at me.”

“Doesn’t sound very angelic, if you ask me,” Crowley said. “Not very loving, is it? They’re essentially supposed to be your brothers and sisters, aren’t they? What gives them the right?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Well you know what they say about siblings,” he said. “The only enemy you can’t live without.” 

Crowley swallowed a hot flash of anger and really looked at Aziraphale closely. His vitriol wouldn’t help right now. The angel looked completely defeated. What did he need?

“Come on,” he said, standing up and holding out a hand. “Let’s get out of here. Time for a drive.” 

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, then allowed himself to be bundled up and taken out of the shop, without even stopping to fuss about bringing tea or biscuits or anything. He just, Crowley noted, put himself in Crowley’s hands, trustingly, and followed where he was asked. 

It was one of the first warm days of spring, and Crowley pointed the car south out of London and then headed for the first pretty place he could think of – the Dover coast. The angel revived a little looking at the green fields and scenery, and soon they rolled the windows down and enjoyed the breeze. They pulled in at a small seaside town famous for its combination bookstore-bakery and settled in on the deck for a pot of tea and a mini bundt cake, and sat watching the boats bobbing in the currents. 

“It’s a little nippy,” Aziraphale said, conjuring a scarf for each of them and tucking Crowley’s around him before fussing with his own. Both were tartan, but Crowley did not mention it, especially since his was a rather nice black, red, and gray version.

The angel was only picking at his cake, taking the occasional tiny bite but mostly playing with his fork and ruminating. 

“You know, angel,” Crowley said, stirring his tea, “you do an immense amount of good down here. You know that, right? Just because your so-called superiors can’t see it clearly doesn’t mean they’re correct.” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “They’re the ones in charge, my dear.”

“But – but they don’t know, do they,” Crowley spluttered. “They just look at a printout of how many times you miracled up a change of clothing but they don’t see the way you make random people better when it’s not an official assignment. Just last week you erased that college student’s debts so she could stay in school – and let me tell you, her path if you hadn’t done that was straight-out terrifying, definitely headed for drugs. And you made that mother at the park whose baby wasn’t sleeping get her first good night’s sleep in a year, which probably prevented her from smacking the little bugger, which probably would’ve made him torture puppies or grow up to be a serial killer, wouldn’t it?” 

Aziraphale laughed. “You exaggerate.” But his shoulders looked a little bit lighter. 

“I don’t,” Crowley said. “Everywhere we go, you notice someone who’s hurting and you help them, without even thinking about it. Who knows how much evil those people would’ve come to if it weren’t for you. You’re not just doing your assignments, you’re reducing the overall potential evil in the world, exponentially.”

Aziraphale looked up. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Crowley said. “I should really be quite annoyed about it, you know. You make my job so, so much harder than it needs to be.” 

Aziraphale, recognizing that for the compliment it was intended to be, colored pink and sat back in his chair looking much more content. 

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “I do appreciate you bringing me out here today. You’d make a much better sibling than any of them.” 

Well they were technically siblings once, Crowley thought, but he pushed that away because he hated thinking about before the fall. Still, he thought, Aziraphale was as close to family – or as close to what family ought to be – as he had ever had. Family was supposed to love and accept you, no matter your foibles, to want what was best for you even when you couldn’t see it yourself. There was one being in all the universe who appeared to be able to do that for him, and he would be twice-damned if he couldn’t return the favor. 

“If we’re siblings,” he said, a sly smile on his face, “I’m definitely older than you, and that means I get to borrow your stuff without asking, and you have to do my chores.” 

Aziraphale grinned. “If you get to borrow my stuff without asking, I get to steal the keys to your car and go joy riding.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “If you steal my car, I get to thumb through all of your scrolls and leave messy fingerprints on them.”

“If you get to thumb through my scrolls, I get to eat all of your desserts.”

“You already eat all of my desserts, angel,” the demon said flatly.

“Oh,” the angel said with a twinkle. “So I do!” He reached over and pulled Crowley’s untouched piece of cake towards him. “Might as well get started on it, then.” 

Crowley smirked and made a token protest, just for show, just to make the angel happy. And then he sat back and enjoyed the sight of Aziraphale, seemingly restored to himself, as he happily nattered on about a bookshop he’d noted down the road that they simply must visit.

There was the family you were given, he thought, and there was the family you found for yourself. 

Thank the stars they had each other.


	8. Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few thoughts on attraction, and a few steps along the way.

_Eros – passion, physical attraction, romantic love_

London, present day (or thereabouts)

Attraction, thinks Aziraphale, is a mystifying thing. It’s not so much about the physical form, for him. He’s been romantically involved with humans a few times over the years, and he’s no stranger to the pull of the physical sensations, but for him to really be drawn to someone, there’s a deeper beauty that’s needed. 

He appreciates Crowley’s current corporation, certainly. Crowley’s corporation is GORGEOUS, all points and sinew and wire and flame. He’s long and langorous and sharp and quick all wrapped up together and Aziraphale enjoys watching him do just about anything, taking him in with the fine eye of a connoisseur. He enjoys – no he _craves_ touching him on a deep and visceral level. But – but, the point is, he thinks, if he met Crowley’s corporation walking down the street with someone else inside of it, he wouldn’t even take a second look. Because it’s the being inside who matters. 

If looking at Crowley makes him weak in the knees, it’s not specifically because of anything to do with any particular part of _Crowley_ , knees or otherwise, lovely as they might be. That’s just the icing on the cake. 

Although, he must admit, he is known to enjoy icing.

\--

“There’s a word for me, now,” Aziraphale said one day, apropos of nothing. 

Crowley grinned at his husband over his very hot cappuccino. “I can think of quite a few words for you, angel. Let’s see, fussbudget, adorkable, snarkmuffin –”

Aziraphale whapped him gently, earning himself a mock-stern look but also the stop to that conversational tangent that he’d been aiming for.

“Ok, what word have they come up with now?” Crowley asked with interest.

“Demisexual,” Aziraphale said proudly. 

“Demisexual?” Crowley sounded incredulous. “I have questions. First, where did you learn that word, and two, so what, you’re only attracted to demigods? Demogorgons?” 

Aziraphale blinked and made a note to look up demogorgon later. “No. It means that in order for me to be – you know, intimate with someone, I have to have an emotional connection with them first. Adam told me about it and a host of other very interesting words that they use nowadays to classify themselves.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Sounds about right. Didn’t know there was a label like that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, rather delighted. “And there’s a _flag_!” 

Crowley laughed. “Oh, I must get you one of those. You can put it up next to the pride flag you’ve got in the east window and really piss off the conservatives.” 

Aziraphale beamed. “That would be lovely, my dear.” 

Crowley picked up his phone and started googling to figure out what new kind of label might apply to him. 

\--

Crowley believed in platonic ideals. He was there when they came _up_ with platonic ideals, after all. Might’ve given Plato a bit of a nudge in that direction. Pointed him towards a dark, damp cave and conjured bit of a fire and talked about shadows. You know. Helping. He was always helping. It was exhausting, being so helpful. 

So, from a demonic perspective, his understanding of platonic ideals is this: there’s the thing itself, and there’s the true form of it, and the twain can never quite meet. Our observations of a thing are never quite the sum of it. Demons can have fun with this idea, in a variety of infernal ways. Mix people up, make them think they’re seeing one thing, then suddenly it’s something else. Glamour them into thinking something is perfection and then reveal its pitted, rotted self at the right moment. Classic Grimm’s fairy tale stuff, that, and endless amounts of fun. 

He applied it in life, to some degree, by mentally blaming Plato whenever things went slightly wrong. Helped manage expectations. If that first glass of wine from that elusive bottle you’d been after for decades wasn’t quite as good as you thought, well hell, blame Plato. It was the reflection of a perfect thing, not the perfect thing itself. If it didn’t feel quite as good to get a commendation for a dastardly act as you’d hoped, well, fuck Plato, maybe there was some platonic ideal of a commendation out there that no one could live up to. Most things didn’t live up to his imagination.

Also, he quite enjoyed saying “Fuck Plato” now and then. Plato had been kind of a bastard, and not in the fun way. 

But Aziraphale? With Aziraphale it was different. 

There were advantages to being an ethereal being, even a damned one. For one, you could kind of poke your head out of the cave and see everything at once. The inside AND the outside. The mortal and the immortal. The physical and the ineffable. 

When he met Aziraphale, on top of that wall in the first weeks of Earth, he thought he was quite interesting – funny, full of light, beautiful in ways that were painful to contemplate, and most importantly, full of contradictions. He was half in love with him by the end of the first conversation. Over time, though, he got to see other forms of the angel – he got to see his bits of his true ethereal form from time to time, either in battle, or in defense of a loved one, or, terrifyingly, when he got really, really angry at Crowley and all those extra eyes started popping out. There were extra wings. Sometimes there was a bull’s head, or a lion, or an eagle. He thought those were damn attractive too. And there were moments, just a few select moments, when he got to merge his ethereal self into Aziraphale’s and experience him in another dimension all together. He couldn’t explain what he looked like in that form; words weren’t created for it. But if there was ever a physical, ethereal representation of the Platonic ideal of an angel, that was it. 

It was mouthwatering. He was starstruck with love, and it showed no signs of letting up.

\--

Popular films always depict the first time a couple falls into bed as being easy, requiring no special effort, problem free with everything falling into place easily. Popular culture, for the most part, gets it wrong.

The first time with someone, even someone you’ve known and watched for six millennia, is often an awkward, fragile affair. There are elbows, and noses, and pointy bits that poke in the wrong area, and “oh dear, should we perhaps change sides?” and “perhaps if you turn your head a little to the right” and, if you’re lucky, laughter as well as nervous tension, a bit of wonder and fun, and finally, joy. 

The first kiss with Aziraphale was a complete surprise, sparing Crowley the opportunity to get nervous. The second kiss followed the first so closely that he was into it before he had time to think. 

He made up for that later, when they decided to go upstairs. 

“Dearest,” Aziraphale said, leaning in to place a kiss on his neck as he unbuttoned Crowley’s collar with agonizing slowness. “Do you need to sit down? Because you look like you’re about to faint.”

Crowley huffed and tried to reboot his verbal systems. “Ngk,” he said, then shook his head and tried again. “No, I’m fine!” He reached up and tried to take over the task of unbuttoning, only to have Aziraphale move his hands away and continue his slow and steady process of opening a button and placing a kiss, then moving on to the next one. 

“Ah, there you are,” Aziraphale said when he finished and pulled the black silk garment off. “Just lovely.” 

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you just fine??” he all but shouted. “Since when are you the king of composure?” 

“Hrm,” Aziraphale said, a hungry smile on his face that far surpassed even the way he looked at cakes. “I suppose it’s just that I’ve thought about this moment for so long that I’m too delighted to be nervous.” 

And with that, he reached down and began to slide Crowley’s belt loose from its loops.

_Oh lord,_ Crowley thought to himself, _after six thousand years, the angel is going to discorporate me._

\-- 

“Why –” Aziraphale started that first weekend as they lay together, tangled in the sheets, the light from the skylight catching on Crowley’s sharp shoulder and his snake tattoo. “Oh never mind.”

The demon’s eyes were half closed, and he ran a hand over his eyes and perked up. “No, what is it?” 

“I was just wondering,” Aziraphale tried again, “why you’re interested in this.” 

“In what?”

“In –” Aziraphale waved a hand around the bed in a vaguely inclusive movement. “In this. In me, this way.” he finished, pointing at himself. 

Crowley pushed up onto an elbow and frowned a little. 

“You want to know, after having one of the best evenings of my entire life, why I’m interested in this?” 

“Well, er, yes,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, it’s not all that standard for demons, is it? You tempt more than you partake.” 

Crowley blinked. “Are _you_ not interested in this? Because honestly, angel, we don’t have to do this if it’s not what you want. I can accept whatever form you want this relationship to take, as long as we’re together.” 

“No, no,” Aziraphale rushed to assure him, a slight blush visible on his cheeks even in the dark. “I can assure you – I am. I do. I, er, I very much do.” 

Crowley leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “Oh, thank blazes.” 

“But still.” 

Crowley thought. “Because I love you? I thought that much was obvious.”

“I love you too dearest.” Aziraphale appeared a little frustrated with himself. “Oh, I’m not even sure what I’m asking. Please forget about it.” 

“No, this is important,” Crowley said. “It makes no difference to me what you look like, angel. I have been attracted to you in every form I’ve ever seen. Up to and including Madame Tracy. Had you been stuck in her body forever, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d still want you.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “That’s a sweet, but disturbing thought.” 

“I’d love you if you were a glowing cloud of amorphous goo, angel,” the demon said, insistently. “I’d love you if you were –” he stops, trying to think of the most disgusting thing he can. “I’d love you if you looked like Gabriel.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished. “That’s taking it a bit far.” 

“Point is, it would still be you under there. That’s what I’m interested in.” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment, and Crowley frowned, wondering if he said something wrong. There was a small zap of energy, and when he reopened his eyes, they were the exact shade of violet of Gabriel’s eyes. 

Those violet eyes sparkled with angelic mischief.

“Prove it,” he said.

“Oh,” Crowley threatened. “Now you’re gonna get it, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You knew I wasn't going to write a full sex scene, right? But I gave you the beginning of one. :) Hope that's enough...
> 
> And just for fun, added a few little shoutouts in here to Stranger Things, and more obscure, Welcome to Nightvale. 
> 
> One more chapter to finish this off by Valentines Day -- upon which day I am off to Mexico for a week, and going to do my best while I'm there to think about Aziraphale and the story I hinted at ages ago about his time in ancient mesoamerica with the Olmec king. :) :) :)


End file.
